Prompted to Madness

Still awed by your prowess
in the three-ring circus of education;
You will ever be
lion-tamer, trapeze artist and juggler:
students/parents/administration
are your spinning plates
and you do it amazingly well.

Teaching middle schoolers
was something I thought I could do
until that eighth year
when waves of nausea assaulted me
the closer I got to the school parking lot
every morning after intolerable nights:
waking up in cold sweats at 2 a.m,
breaking down over nothing,
trying and failing to love my enemies . . .

It felt like standing on that bridge;
The Scream by Munch—
ongoing, endlessly repeating
in slow motion, relentless.

How do you not become disgusted
depressed, cynical and dismissive
of the unfunny clown show
as the suited specters approach?

 


PROMPT #21:

write a poem in which you first recall someone you used to know closely but are no longer in touch with, then a job you used to have but no longer do, and then a piece of art that you saw once and that has stuck with you over time. Finally, close the poem with an unanswerable question.

Poet’s Problem

Poet’s problem, patron saint
Puts me in the place I’m in
Passion’s letter
Poison’s pen
On these two things I can depend
Who will write your number on the wall?
I will not be there, when you call
I think I’ll do a line and then again . . .

Dirty dealers, school of thought
And armchair for the strength of thought
The TV set’s been on all night
You were wrong and I was right
You will write your number on the wall
I will not be there when you call
I think I’ll do a line and then again . . .

Who will write your number that’s not all?
I will not be there, when you call
You will write your number on the wall
I will not be there when you call
I think I’ll do a line and then again . . .

Poets Problem Lyrics as written by Jimmy Destri
Lyrics © BMG Rights Management

White Russian

 

Poor pathetic me

I have barely stirred

From my dacha

In the birch-grove

on the endless steppes . . .

Misunderstood libation

The balalaikas mourn me

The Westerners despise me

The media hates me

I’m not Kahlúa enough

Too white for the woke

No one orders me

I’m worse than Hitler

(Not to mention Scorpion Bowl)

Must have been the quality

Of the vodka they

Put in.


write a poem that anthropomorphizes a kind of food. It could be a favorite food of yours, or maybe one you feel conflicted about.

Earthly Good

Jesus answered and said to him,
Most assuredly, I say to you, unless one is born again,
he cannot see the kingdom of God.

Be born again. It’s not too late
Until your corpse is locked away.
The mourners all will lie for you,
but God shall have the final say.

His message does not please the mind,
Much less the pride of  arrogant men;
And women share the guilt. It’s true;
We’re in this all together, then . . .

Therefore one must obey the Lord.
We live each day upon the brink—
The soul is dead since Eden’s fall
And hell is closer than you think.

Reincarnation is a lie.
Those good intentions seal your fate.
I’m sorry Mr. BJP,
You too, must enter at Christ’s gate.

No Abrahamic new age gods
Have power to lead the world to life.
Vague revelations in a cave
Have only furthered violent strife.

Therefore be born-again. It’s late.
Earth’s bar is closing; drink or leave.
It’s not my idea nor your choice:
Heed heaven’s command: with faith, BELIEVE.

 


PROMPT #19: write a poem that starts with a command